


A Winning Hand

by landsail0r



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders Positive, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Other, Wicked Grace night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:59:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5507402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landsail0r/pseuds/landsail0r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is terrible at Wicked Grace, but he won't let his friends give him back the money he's lost. They find another solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Winning Hand

“I don’t know if I can make it tonight.” Anders wound torn strips of fabric around his fingers absently, rolls of makeshift bandages stacked on a table next to him.

“You haven’t been to the Hanged Man in weeks. A few days back the bartender asked me if you were dead.”

“Really?” Anders raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Well, no. But he plausibly could have.” Hawke shook their head in mild frustration. “Your friends miss you, though. And it would be good for you to take a break.”

“The clinic is wrecked. I’ve barely tidied up in weeks.” Anders gestured over the scattered cots and chairs, for once deserted. “And at any rate, even with all the help you’ve been giving me I can’t afford to lose any more money to Isabela.”

“You’ve been giving the food Bodahn leaves out to your patients again, haven’t you?”

“Yes! It’s not that I don’t appreciate all that you’ve done for me, it’s just that…” He trailed off sadly.

“You won’t be of any use to them if you work yourself into an early grave.”

Anders snorted, and when he spoke again his tone was acidic. “Maybe then—”

Hawke immediately put their finger over his lips. “No. Absolutely not. You are worth so much.” They embraced him gently and kissed him on the tip of his nose. “And not just to me.”

A flush traveled across Anders’s cheek, and Hawke stepped back. “Listen. What you do is entirely your own decision, but our friends and I would greatly appreciate it if you came to Wicked Grace night. You don’t have to play, but it would be nice to have your company.”

Anders looked around at the empty clinic again, then slipped the half-wrapped bandage off his fingers. “Fine. Let’s go, then.”

 

The Hanged Man was even louder and more crowded than usual, and Anders hesitated at the door for a moment. Hawke slipped their hand into his. “It’s okay. You’re safe here,” they whispered, and after a deep breath Anders followed them inside.

Everyone else was already there, seated around one of the heavy tables at the back of the bar. Varric stood in surprise when he saw Anders. “Blondie! You made it!”

“I was coerced.” Anders laughed. “Have you started already?”

“We were waiting for you and Hawke. Bela’s been shuffling the cards for twenty minutes.”

Anders and Hawke sat down in the last two chairs, and they were a few turns into the first hand when Anders looked around in surprise. “Wait—where did Fenris go?”

“Latrine, I think.” Varric’s tone was a little too flippant, even for him, and Anders furrowed his brow but said nothing.

A few more rounds passed, and Merrill was just cheerily announcing that she’d drawn the Angel of Death when Fenris reappeared, carrying a large chest. He dropped it on the table, narrowly missing Varric’s head and scattering cards and coins everywhere. Isabela made a noise of frustration.

Anders started backwards from the table, nearly tipping over in his chair; to his left, Hawke attempted to stifle a snort. When he had regained his balance, he looked around the table in surprise. Everyone was watching him, and Merrill was grinning broadly and flapping her tiny hands in excitement.

“What the… Hawke, what’s going on?” Anders turned to Hawke in confusion. 

“You keep coming to Wicked Grace night, and you won’t let us give you back your money even though you lose every damn time,” Varric said. “Seriously, you’re a terrible liar. I can’t—” 

“Open the chest,” Hawke interrupted.

Anders stood and leaned over the table, fingers shaking slightly as he fumbled with the latch. When he finally lifted the lid, he took a step backwards in shock, falling into his chair again and covering his mouth with his hands.

“We’ve been pooling the money we’ve won off you for months,” Aveline explained stiffly. “It was Hawke’s idea.” 

The chest was nearly overflowing with supplies: clean bandages, stacks of pristine glass vials, bundles of herbs, shears and forceps and knives forged from shining steel. Anders stared at it, speechless.

“You give so much of yourself every day,” Merrill said, solemn now. “The least we can do is give you something in return.” She paused, looking concerned. “Are you all right?” 

“I… need a moment,” Anders managed to say before standing and hurrying away from the table.

He was standing in the alley, back pressed to the wall, and sobbing into his hands when Hawke found him. They wrapped their arms around him in silence, holding him as he wept. Anders eventually pulled away, wiping his eyes and sniffing a little. “Sorry,” he said shakily.

“For what?”

“I just… Maker, I don’t deserve you. Any of you.”

“That’s not true.” Hawke kissed him gently. 

Anders managed a watery smile. “There’s no way the money I lost bought all that.”

“We all chipped in a little extra. Isabela wanted to buy you liquor, but I talked her out of it eventually.”

“Everyone? Even Fenris?” 

Hawke laughed. “Even Fenris. He pretended to be very resentful about it, though.”

“Of course he did. Maker, I need to go back inside—they probably all think I’m an ungrateful wretch. Hawke?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For this. For… everything, really.”

“Of course. Let’s go, my love—the others are waiting.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in response to an anonymous prompt. If you want me to write some Handers fic for you, feel free to send me a prompt or idea at cptsd-anders.tumblr.com.


End file.
